


That Time Scott Made Reyes “Play” Paint-ball and Screeched a Lot (And Sara and Vetra Were There, Too)

by beetle



Series: From “Drunken Hook-Up” to “Forever Snuggle-Hubbies”: Scenes from a Reyder Romance [1]
Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Competition, Crack, Crack Treated Crackishly, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Happy Ending, Humor, In groups of two or larger they're competitve and aggressive assholes, M/M, Paintball, Possibly Some Crack?, Reyder, Reyes and Vetra are very patient, Romance, Sara Ryder might be Sarah Connor, Scott sounds like a pterodactyl, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry, Singly Ryders are Lovely, Smut, The word "saint" is used far too often but. . . ., really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-22 00:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12469180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: In which Scott (and Reyes) lose at paint-ball, but win at sex . . . and other things. First ficlet in the series. Please to enjoy some fluffs?





	That Time Scott Made Reyes “Play” Paint-ball and Screeched a Lot (And Sara and Vetra Were There, Too)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts), [littleleotas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleleotas/gifts), [thewickedkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewickedkat/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Modern AU. All-Human. Crack, banter, and smut. Reyes’ POV throughout. Will probably update series weekly.

 

“REYES!!! _TAKE THE GODDAMN SHOT!!!!_ ”

 

At his boyfriend’s frantic/furious demand, Reyes Vidal, who was leaning against a paint-spattered tree—he’d already given his outfit up as a loss, and thus was relaxing against said yellow-splatted tree with genteel resignation—eyed his boyfriend’s firm, well-showcased ass, aimed his phone just a _bit_ to the left . . . and took the new cover-photo for his and Scott’s shared Facebook page.

 

It was _a_ shot taken, but probably not the kind Scott meant. As was borne out by his next screech:

 

"DAMNIT! WILL YOU QUIT STARING AT MY ASS AND _START_ _SHOOTING_?!"

 

Scott really had a rather eerie sort of carrion-bird-in-its-death-throes screech, when he was under pressure and felt the need to yell. Reyes winced, put his phone away securely in one of the inner pockets of his modified flak-vest, and answered.

 

“Apologies, Ryder . . . but I have little interest in doing either, anytime soon, so . . . you’re on your own.”

 

Scott swore blisteringly. Reyes’ eyebrows shot up in surprise as Scott growled words that even _Reyes’_  infamous mouth had never coaxed from those occasionally pious lips.

 

It was as arousing a display as it was impressive.

 

“TRAITOR!” Scott finally screeched at him like a pissy, enraged pterodactyl. Then he whirled around and advanced like a lone berserk on the direction from which the yellow paint-balls were coming. Then: “YOU’RE GONNA GET IT, SARA RYDER!”

 

From the direction of the shooting: “HA! NOT IF _YOU_ GET IT FIRST, _SCAAAAAAAHT_!”

 

Rolling his eyes, Reyes wondered if Vetra was leaning on a tree near Sara, doing exactly the same thing he was. Like Reyes, Vetra Nyx, one of Scott’s old marines-buddies, had a violent streak and was _terribly_ competent with any sort of gun. Or blade. Or explosive. Or even just her bare hands.

 

But, also like Reyes, she didn’t take war-games as seriously as her lover did. Especially not on a gorgeous Saturday, well before any self-respecting individual would have even decided on a brunch theme. Beyond the mimosas, of course.

 

That was, sadly, one of the perils of loving a Ryder: whether it be Marine Captain Scott M. Ryder, or Air Force Captain Sara J. Ryder . . . or their legendary father, Colonel Alec K. Ryder.

 

Reyes, Vetra, and Dr. Ellen Harlow-Ryder, had often commiserated over brunch-time mimosas while their significant others were off trouncing each other at everything from mini-golf, to lawn-darts . . . to that disturbing afternoon when the Ryders got it into their head to play round after round of sudden-death double-dutch.

 

 _That_ little contest had ended with none of the Ryders speaking to each other for the better part of a fortnight. And Reyes never _did_ find out who won.

 

Now, Reyes sighed, taking in the scene before him without even picking his pristine, unfired paint-gun up off a nearby log. Paint-balls were still flying at Scott, who was still charging across the clearing between their cover, and Sara and Vetra’s cover. Like some sort of paint-ball messiah, he dodged, dipped, ducked, dived, and _dodged_ those painty projectiles, advancing steadily on his sister, who was now rising from cover, leaves and sticks in her fine, medium-brown, pixie-cut hair. Even from this distance, Reyes could make out the grit-toothed, tight-jawed look of focus on her square, angular face, which was dominated by mirrored aviator sunglasses.

 

She looked more than a little like Sarah Connor, ala _Terminator 2: Judgement Day_.

 

“FUCK!” the female Ryder-twin shouted in a weird, guttural bark that was about ten octaves deeper than Scott’s creechy screeching. She jumped up and out of the bush-hidden gully in which she’d taken cover, clearly in berserker-mode, as well, and stalked toward her brother, firing her own paint-gun with shots that were wild, but almost deadly-accurate considering the lack of aiming.

 

The twins finally met near the middle of the yellow- and blue-spattered glade, but closer to Sara’s cover than Scott’s. For long moments, the pair stood glaring at each other, just far enough apart to level their paint-guns at the other.

 

Finally, they both looked down. Then they both swore, glaring back up at each other again, before whirling to face their respective abandoned covers: Scott covered in yellow paint from collar to groin, Sara similarly covered in blue.

 

“WELL?” Scott demanded creechily and incredulously of Reyes, waving his gun vaguely in Sara’s direction. “AVENGE ME!”

 

From most of the way to her own cover, Sara was barking: “DAMNIT, VETRA! I’M _DEAD_ , OVER HERE! GO GET SOME _PAYBACK_!”

 

Reyes couldn’t make out Vetra’s bright, but apologetic reply. He was too busy wetting his hand in some of the yellow paint on the tree behind him, then slapping his wet hand to his chest firmly, smearing that cheery yellow across his flak-vest, even as he pouted woefully at Scott.

 

“Oh, I’m _sorry_ , Ryder,” he tutted with his most _sincere_ sincerity, even as Scott gaped at him in pure disbelief, his storm-gray eyes wide below his sweaty, grown-out jarhead buzzcut. The stress-vein in his right temple was throbbing like an agitated cobra. “But I’ve been hit. I’ll avenge you _next time_ , my radiant, paint-drenched angel . . . _I promise_.”

 

In the face of Reyes’ most innocent and accommodating smirk, Scott seemed to be at a temporary loss for words.

 

Then the screeching started up _again_ , screechier than before and accompanied by frantic flailing of bare, gorgeously muscled arms (speckled in yellow paint). Scott stormed closer, stopping only when he was right in Reyes’ space, smelling of paint and sweat and forest, and under that . . . the myrrh-musky, but otherwise undefinable _Scott_ -scent that’d made Reyes' mouth water from the very first.

 

“What? What is it? Why’re you smirking at me like that, Reyes?” Scott demanded in a clipped, wary, not-quite-screech. His big, startling-intense gray eyes were stressed-out and temperamental as he crossed his arms, then glared _up_ at Reyes, but from _down_ his pointy nose.

 

Reyes chuckled and smirked and darted in to kiss the tip of his lover’s nose. “ _You_ are an utterly _ridiculous_ man, Scott Ryder, and I _adore_ you.”

 

Surprised, Scott gaped and blinked, then wriggled his nose with clear offense. But his tension and irritation had disappeared rather suddenly. A few seconds later, however, he was squinting ruefully up at Reyes with a moue that was pouty, petulant, and put-out, more than anything.

 

Pretty, too. _Always_.

 

“You’re a conniving _dick_!” Scott huffed, but failed to maintain an effective sulk as Reyes’ hands settled intently on his hips. He glared, but let himself be pushed deeper into cover. Into a near-thicket of leafy, low-hanging branches and tall, fern-like bushes.

 

Reyes pinned him up against a blessedly paint-free tree with his longer, leaner body; leaned into Scott for long moments and gazed into his dilated eyes and flushed face, then—after brushing a fleeting, tender kiss to Scott’s plush, parted lips—sank to his knees.

 

His quick, clever fingers made short work of Scott’s fly. In less than half a minute, Scott was huffing again, though it sounded more like a relieved and dreamy sigh. Soon, his rough hand was carding reverently through Reyes’ flawless undercut and he was panting shallowly. Though his breath caught after a low, almost pained groan, when Reyes’ licked the tip of his _rapidly_ hardening cock.

 

In the wake of that dropped gauntlet, Scott continued to gape, Reyes continued to smirk, and their gazes continued to hold. . . .

 

“You’re _shady_ ,” Scott gulped a few minutes later, as Reyes’ hands tightened on his sturdy calves for balance. Reyes chuckled remorselessly, neither stopping his ministrations nor breaking their locked gaze. Scott’s hand was trembling and no longer gentle in his hair. “ _Such—ohJesusfuck!—_ a shady _bastard!”_

 

 _Hmm, but a handsome one_ , Reyes replied blithely, via a series of hums and swallows . . . low in his throat, and around Scott’s eager and responsive cock.

 

And for the next while, the woods were silent and tranquil. Then _that_ all ended with a woman’s helpless, rasping-raw, primal-sexual yell from relatively nearby. Back in the direction of the opposing team’s cover.

 

“HA!!!!” Scott screeched breathlessly, spitefully, his hand tightening briefly in Reyes’ hair. “I WIN!!!!!”

 

“FUCK . . . _YOU_ . . . ASSHOLE!” was the barking, groaned-growled reply from the shielded gully.

 

Reyes snorted and rolled his eyes, indulging in a _moment_ —just one—of sentimental exasperation and fondness.

 

Then, one pornstar-grade swallow-hum and a wicked-slow scrape of teeth later, Scott was coming _hard_. Suddenly and copiously, and screeching the kind of profanity and blasphemy he apparently _used to_ reserve only for paint-ball battles against his sister.

 

 _Deeply_ flattered and touched—though he’d deny both feelings to his dying day—Reyes  _smiled_ , closed his eyes, and _let go_ . . . came just as hard. _Suddenly and copiously_ , even . . . and without once laying a hand on himself.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt (can’t remember whose, unfortunately . . . beetle, for once, _did not_ keep receipts): "WILL YOU STOP STARING AT MY ASS AND START SHOOTING?!"
> 
> Thanks to stitch, Kat, and Soul-Drinker for ALL THE KINDNESS AND PATIENCE <3
> 
> [I got ya Tumbles, right here](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


End file.
